


Fleet

by chainofclovers



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Carol’s father doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain what she is to him, but a phrase, brief and buried, streaks across his thoughts..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Needled_Ink_1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needled_Ink_1975/gifts).



> In the novel, Carol's family is from the state of Washington, but I've changed this location to Connecticut for the purposes of my story.
> 
> Also, this is my first and maybe only foray into writing _Carol_. Big fan of the book, even bigger fan of the movie, and I don't think it "needs" fanfic. But this was fun to write, and it was all for needled_ink_1975, who was kind enough to edit her own gift. Thanks, N.

Carol’s father doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain what she is to him, but a phrase, brief and buried, streaks across his thoughts: _my son_. He blames his drink. 

He hasn’t seen Carol—his only child—for many months, but now they pace together in his driveway as they always do, talking about their cars, and the cars stand with them, complacent and proud like mythic servants. He’d backed his Roadmaster out of the carport in anticipation of her arrival, wanting their two-car fleet side by side at last. Carol drives a 1949 Packard in a color that’s at once warm and cool, pale but vibrant; it’s buffed and shined to near-perfection but Robert nevertheless finds little splatters of grime on the fenders, no doubt from the journey here. He’s got a clean rag from the carport sticking out of his pocket, and he teases his daughter—of course, his daughter—by spitting into the rag and polishing the fenders himself. The spittle streaks, but it doesn’t matter. He’s achieved what he set out to do, which is to make Carol smile. 

Robert’s car is a 1947 model, a postwar splurge better-deserved by a younger man, a man who’d fought and suffered, a man with something to reclaim. But when the war ended Robert had been swept away by that feeling of being tentatively unafraid after years of swallowing fear; like many others, his response was to part with some money, to flank his home with a display of something loaded with literal power. 

He’d purchased the Roadmaster the year Rindy was born, and had told everyone whether they asked or not that it was a car for visiting his granddaughter, that he was going to take his little princess for a spin, that if his son-in-law would allow it, perhaps this would even be the car in which Rindy and her younger siblings would someday learn to drive. When she was seventeen Carol had insisted on learning, and he’d taught her despite her mother’s protests. He’d been patient, or at least he’d tried to be, bringing along his tobacco pipe on their outings in the old Ford so he’d have something to do other than yell at Carol or try to steal back the wheel. They’d both enjoyed the sweet smell of the Cavendish tobacco, Carol secondhand. But not secondhand for long: she’d always begged to smoke, begged to drink, begged to drive, to go far away for school, to work, to travel, to live alone. A list of a boy’s dreams, an uncomfortable list, though his grown-up daughter is right here in his driveway in a swirl of red coat and lipstick and blond curls. With Margery sick in the hospital it shames him to think it, but Carol is honestly prettier than her mother ever was. And yet. _My son has come home to me. My little girl. My favorite person._ No phrase can capture all of it. 

They’re deep in rocks glasses that used to be full of whiskey. The day is waning quickly but the remaining sun has melted the ice in their glasses to create the perfect whiskey-to-water ratio for their last sips. It’s the end of September, and although there’s more than an edge of cold in the air, the temperature of their drinks is still pleasurable. How is it that he can be this happy?

Carol has folded her free arm across the front of her body in the same way Robert’s would be if he weren’t wearing clean clothes while holding a dirty rag. She’s been looking at a streaky fender, smile replaced by darker thoughts, but on her next sip she glances at her father. He’s a little greyer, a little stouter, but he’s still the essence of sameness for her: same hair pomade, same neat sweater and slacks. Retirement has relaxed his spirit but not his looks. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she says, and the young word puts a blush in her cheeks. 

“Oh, now, what do you have to feel sorry for?” Robert’s tone is kind. “That bastard didn’t know how good he had it.” It had taken years for Robert to realize he didn’t like Harge much, so palpable had been his relief that someone had finally found Carol. The courtship had taken a long time, but the wedding was a joyful blur—such a perfect day, a day Robert and Margery had long dreamed about. Marriage was the thing that gave a fierce man tenderness, that gave a tender woman a love to guard fiercely. No matter how Robert felt about the man now—he was lazy in conversation, too quick to turn lukewarm—he’d seen tenderness plain on Harge’s face that day. Carol’s face had been veiled.

“No, I don’t mean Harge. I was talking about Mother.” 

Robert drains the rest of his glass. He’s a little disappointed; he’d hoped for an opportunity to ask Carol why Rindy isn’t here, how Carol is really doing, what the hell actually happened to her, but he can’t change this subject. “Ah. Well. Your mother’s being very strong. She might recover yet—” His voice breaks, either from the way he swallowed his drink or from feeling.

Carol hopes he doesn’t believe his own words, hopes they’re for her benefit. Her mother is not going to leave the hospital this time. They’ve taken the day off work, she and Therese, to drive here to Connecticut so that Carol can say goodbye. She’s been promised that the hospital will relax its Saturday visiting hours, that she can spend the whole day with her mother. Before she can formulate a response, she senses eyes on her, and follows the feeling with her own. Therese watches them from the dormer window, a window which leads into the rarely-used second guest room. The last time Carol was here, she and Harge and Rindy shared the big guest room together, but tonight she’ll sleep there alone, across the hall from the tiny room containing Therese. Therese has paused in the act of folding a sweater, her arms outstretched just slightly, hands full of blue wool. She smiles sheepishly when she realizes she’s been caught staring. 

Until Carol’s expression changes and she directs a smile and wave up to the second floor of the house, Robert had nearly forgotten that someone else was visiting.

**

Carol and Therese make pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner that night. Robert thanks them for the effort, but Therese finds it strange that both father and daughter had assumed, without once speaking of the matter, that Carol would be in charge of planning and preparing the meal. Therese supposes she doesn’t really need to know, but she wonders anyway how men like Robert Samuelson survive without women. She thinks about how Carol has made more of an effort lately to learn about cars, so she can take care of some minor maintenance herself. Cars are of no particular interest to Therese, but with nothing more than a book and a wrench borrowed from her friend Dannie, she managed to fix a leaky faucet in their apartment. Besides, it’s easy enough for them to pay a handyman to repair whatever they can’t handle on their own, but you have to be rich to pay a woman to cook every meal for you and clean up afterwards. Rich like Harge. Rich like Harge’s parents. 

For Therese the evening is a string of observed traditions. The three of them drank milk with dinner as if they were children, but like clockwork, as soon as they’ve taken care of the dishes, Robert and Carol repair to the sitting room to smoke cigarettes and drink more whiskey. Therese follows along, of course, nods her head to the jazz streaming from the big old Bendix radio, says yes to a liberal pour. 

When they’re settled on the big, overstuffed furniture, Robert turns to Therese. “You girls must get along pretty well,” he says. Before Therese has time to think of something to say, Robert continues. “When I had roommates—mind you, this was in the ancient times—I would’ve killed for a weekend alone. But here you are.” He cocks his head toward Carol. “She must not make you too crazy.” 

“Therese has been a big help,” Carol says. She’s perfected the art of this sort of meaningless, diplomatic sentence. The ease bothers Therese sometimes, but in this moment she’s grateful.

“Well, I’m sure,” Robert replies, still looking at Therese. He grins, and Therese realizes he has no suspicions, that this is an old man’s way of flirting with her, getting to know her. For all Robert knows, he’ll never see her again. But Therese does like him, and does hope to see him again, so she grins back. 

“It’s been very nice to be here,” she says. 

**

Late that night, Therese has changed into her pajamas and is about to head to the washroom to brush her teeth when she notices that a light is already on in there and the door is ajar. She walks closer and Carol appears in the doorframe. She tilts her head to the side and mouths, “Come in.” When they’re both inside, Carol closes the door silently, with a practiced hand that knows the quirks of this house’s every doorknob, every stair. She sighs. “Bearing up all right?”

“Sure. You?”

“I’m fine.” 

Therese notices Carol’s nightgown folded over the towel rack. “Are you going to take a bath?” she whispers. 

“No. But unzip me?”

When Carol is naked, she grips the sink for support as Therese places kisses from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She closes her eyes against their reflection in the old mirror with the ornate brass frame. She’s depressed by the thought of sleeping alone tonight, even though that hardship is so small compared to the kind of loneliness she used to endure without complaint. Once her nightgown is on, she whispers “I’ll miss you” and slips out the door. 

**

They’re all quiet in the car on the way to the hospital the next morning. Therese watches Carol and Robert from the backseat of Robert’s car, wonders what they’re silently saying to each other. Are they in mourning yet? Or simply planning what they’ll talk about? “Your mother knows nothing about you being in the city,” Robert says aloud. All three of them suppose that’s good enough shorthand for what he really means: the almost-finalized divorce, the loss of custody, the sale of the beautiful home in New Jersey. Margery has been sick for a long time, hasn’t been right-minded either, and Carol isn’t surprised to learn that her father has tiptoed around the messier subjects. Still, it’s strange: all of Carol’s news—news fit to share, anyway—used to filter to her father through her mother. For the past couple of years, this dynamic has shifted, and she’s not used to it. Not at all. 

In the hospital Carol introduces Therese to Margery, who is very pale, her entire face exhausted. Still, she’s prim as ever, self-contained almost to the point of shrunkenness. The big white hospital bed doesn’t help. Margery’s eyes go warm every time she looks at Carol, but she is polite and vague about Therese. Carol realizes that her mother is far gone enough that her world doesn’t have any room for new people. Therese doesn’t matter to Margery; she lacks the energy for fondness and animosity alike. People tend to find Therese interesting, and it’s odd to watch Margery register no first impression. 

Therese has pulled a book from her bag and is plotting the most acceptable way to make a break for the waiting room—she wants to be a presence for Carol but respectfully invisible to everyone else—when Robert speaks. “I’m going for a cup of coffee,” he says, already nearly out the door. “Any takers?”

Therese stands. “Mind if I join you?” She glances back at Carol. “To give you two some time,” she murmurs. 

When they’re alone, Carol smiles down at her mother and tells palliative lies. She tells her that Harge sends all his love, that she’ll definitely bring Rindy with her next time, that the trees in their yard in Ridgewood are just starting to turn and it’s so lovely, lovelier every year, life is lovelier every year. 

Even after her father and Therese come back bearing paper coffee cups from the cafeteria, and everyone is seated together, Carol’s smooth voice keeps up the charade. They all smile and nod, even Margery, lie and lie and lie. 

**

“I miss her,” Carol says in the washroom that night. She sits perched on the closed toilet seat, arms folded across her chest. 

Therese spits toothpaste into the sink. “Rindy?” she asks. 

Carol shrugs. “Rindy. My mother. I don’t know.” 

“You’ll see Rindy in a week. You can talk to her about her grandmother then. I think she’s old enough to understand. Or almost.” 

“I agree.” Carol smiles, and the smile isn’t exactly forced but does appear placed upon her face. It’s a look Therese hasn’t seen in a long time. “I think Harge is letting me pick her up again, take her to the apartment. Can you give us a little time alone to talk things over?” 

Therese nods. “Of course I can.”

“Thanks. And then you’ll swoop in and take us to the movies?”

“And then I’ll swoop in and take you to the movies.” 

**

Robert knows not to expect much more of a visit the next day. The girls have work on Monday, and they’ll be tired if they don’t make the drive early enough to get some rest before the week begins. They won’t be able to stay long. Still, he half expects the day to go the way Sundays normally go when Carol visits: a morning spent in bathrobes, the newspaper spread over the entire dining room table, endless cups of coffee, and orange juice for the kid, everyone pretending they’re about to get ready for church until it’s too late to go and they put the percolator back on instead. But Margery is not here, nor Rindy, and Carol has brought a stranger with her. 

The thought of Therese makes him remember just in time that he shouldn’t show up in the kitchen in a bathrobe this morning, and he heads back to his room to change for the day. By the time he’s ready, he can smell coffee and hear voices. The stranger laughs at something Carol has said just as he comes into the room; as soon as she sees him, she silences herself. Still, he’s heard enough to like Therese more. She has a young laugh, and she must be livelier than she looks. 

Their suitcases rest beside the kitchen table. Not long at all, then. 

“Miss Therese, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Robert says when the only thing left is to pack the car. 

“Likewise, Mr. Samuelson. Though I’m very sorry for the circumstances.” 

Carol embraces her father. “Ring us anytime. Ring me anytime. I’ll come back, too.” 

His offer to load the suitcases having been brushed aside, Robert will stand waving at the door until they’re gone. What is the word for the natural way Carol tosses both her suitcase and Therese’s in the trunk while Therese opens the driver’s side door for Carol, then walks around to the other side and becomes a passenger? A passenger _again_ , Robert can’t help but notice. A big help—perhaps she is, but Therese doesn’t even seem like the type of person who would know how to drive.


End file.
